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Like the rock in that fountain of hers? or perhaps it might be
The world were a garden of flowers. Comes a prince in a boat—
That dream-prince of hers — (thrice a raven, with threatening note,
Flaps his wings) — or mayhap on an elf steed he'd ride.
High walls could not stay him. She leaned from her casement and cried:
‘Look, nurse, they have slain a young deer in the courtyard below,
And the raven awaits them. My prince shall have skin like yon snow.
As red as that blood be his lip, and his hair like the raven's black wing.’
‘Hush, dearest!’ the woman replied. ‘Hush, dearest, and think on the King.’
‘O, nurse, were the pretty flower safe to live on the ocean's broad breast?
Would the little wren fly for her home and her mate to the eagle's cold nest?’
‘Peace, childie! last night the wolf-hound howled long 'neath thy window-sill there.’
‘Sweet nurse! dost thou know of a youth, so pure-skinned, with raven-dark hair?’